


Modern Love

by idiopathicsmile



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 17:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15296046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiopathicsmile/pseuds/idiopathicsmile
Summary: “Steve Rogers,” says Ninety Glorious Pounds of Righteous Wrath, sticking out his hand to shake.“Your knuckles’re bleeding,” says Bucky.Modern AU. A no-serum Steve Rogers meets war veteran Bucky Barnes because they accidentally punch the exact same neo-Nazi at the exact same time.Y'know, a meet-cute.





	Modern Love

The rally is dispersing peacefully, Bucky thinks, when suddenly this beefy white guy in a suit starts ranting about _SJWs_ and _moral decay_ and _white genocide_ , getting all up in the face of a wiry little hipster in a pink tank top, because of course like any true bully, he’d never go after somebody who could actually defend themselves. _Of course_ barring a kid or an old lady, his target is the tiniest, twinkiest dude available.

So Bucky is already gearing up for a confrontation, but then Suit Guy actually says _international Jewry_ , and, yeah, Bucky darts in and decks him across the face, barely registering the blur on edge of his vision as the man in pink throws all his weight into sucker-punching the asshole in the stomach.

The big guy groans and disappears into the crowd, clutching his nose.

The little guy takes a step back and glares up at Bucky. **_ALL YOU FASCISTS BOUND TO LOSE_** , his shirt proclaims in big black letters. “Hey, I had that under control,” snaps Bucky’s new best friend in the whole world.

“No such thing as punching a Nazi _too much_ ,” says Bucky.

It earns him a slow, grudging nod. “Steve Rogers,” says Ninety Glorious Pounds of Righteous Wrath, sticking out his hand to shake.

“Your knuckles’re bleeding,” says Bucky.

Steve glances down. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” he mutters. “Must’ve scraped ‘em on his belt buckle.”

For a scrape, the blood’s really flowing. Bucky frowns. He’s prepared to--he doesn’t even know, peel off his shirt and improvise a bandage? But Steve just shrugs.

“Oh,” says Steve, “at this point, I carry gauze in my wallet.”

Which is worrying. It’s worrying that Steve would need gauze so often, it’s worrying that Steve wouldn’t notice anything unusual about this, it’s worrying that Bucky finds it all weirdly charming, there’s just--a lot to worry about.

“Okay, Steve,” says Bucky. “Okay. What if we go to a cafe, you clean that up in the bathroom, and I buy you a coffee?”

“Why,” says Steve, flat.

Bucky’s a little taken aback, but he tries not to let it show.

Instead he says, lightly as he can, “Because on Monday, my counselor’s gonna ask me, ‘Hey Bucky, what’d you do this weekend?’” And I can tell him, ‘Well, Sam, I resorted to violence,’ _or_ I can say, ‘I made a friend, his name’s Steve, lemme tell you about him,’ and just--sidestep the whole...punching thing.”

“So it’s a favor,” says Steve, biting his lip. Bucky tries to keep his thoughts clean, but: it’s a good look.

“A favor,” Bucky confirms. “Help a guy out?” He tries to smile the way he used to, before Afghanistan, before fucking _Kabul_ , before the blood and the bombs and the way every loud noise makes his heart pound. The smile of a man with two soft hands and a healthy brain. Bucky Barnes was fun once. He’s almost sure of it.

To be honest, it’s been a while since he could summon the energy to even _want_ to be that guy again. Most of the time, it’s hard to find a reason.

He wants to right now, though. Sam would call that progress.

(Sam, who would really only be upset that Bucky _failed to invite him_ to the impromptu Nazi asskicking, but Steve doesn’t need to know that.)

“Always glad to be a good citizen,” Steve says, nodding for Bucky to follow him. “So--counselor. Anger management?”

Kinda startlingly direct, but it beats the alternative. Bucky shakes his head. “It’s about reacclimating to--well, all of this. Got back last month.”

“Why, where were you?”

“Afghanistan.” He snorts, before he can help it.

“What?”

“The arm didn’t tip you off I’m a vet?” says Bucky. “ _Arm_ , singular?”

“There’s congenital conditions,” Steve replies, which--fair enough. “Accidents, too.”

Bucky’s never seen someone stare less at his prosthetic. It’s not the obvious  _don’t look-don’t look-don’t look_ he’ll get from the more passive aggressive strangers; Steve is so genuinely nonchalant that Bucky’d been thinking maybe he hadn’t noticed.

“Used to have braces on my legs,” Steve offers, offhanded, “the first five or six years of my life. There’s no _good_ reactions to it, but there’s bad ones and worse ones.” He shakes his head. “Fuck, sorry, preaching to the choir. I don’t usually hit the disability rights lecture ‘til drink number three.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind,” says Bucky with a grin, and Steve doesn’t exactly _blush_ , but he does look a few seconds too long. Maybe the old Bucky Barnes is in there somewhere after all.

 

“A graphic designer?” Bucky repeats. “Wow, fancy.”

Steve takes a sip of his decaf and shakes his head.

“What?”

“I’m a freelancer with chronic illnesses,” says Steve. “These days, half my life is just calling my reps, begging them to keep Obamacare so I don’t, y’know, die.” A bitter half smile, another sip of coffee. Steve’s got a tattoo on the inside of his bicep: a rose entwined with a wheat stalk, surrounded by the words “SOLIDARITY FOREVER”.

“Shit,” says Bucky. “Have you considered a sham marriage with one of your friends, use their insurance?”

“Doesn’t solve the problem for the rest of the country--” Steve’s saying, just as Bucky mumbles, “I mean, _I’d_ sham-marry you.”

Bucky has forgotten how flirting works. You propose, right? That’s flirting?

Steve blinks. He swivels his head so that his other ear is facing Bucky. “Can you say that again?” he says, and _in for a penny_ , right?

“I’d sham-marry the hell out of you, Steve Rogers,” says Bucky, but Steve just makes a sour face. Not a “no homo” face, Bucky realizes after a rough second or two, more wounded pride.

“Thanks, but I can manage on my own.”

“Are you kidding?” says Bucky. “My family’ll finally stop trying to set me up with whatever nice young human they encounter over the course of their day.”

“Happens to you a lot?”

“Endlessly,” Bucky tells him. “On one level, I know it’s because they’re, they’re proud of me or whatever--”

“Right,” says Steve, almost absently, “no, handsome war hero, I get it, I get it,” and Bucky almost sputters a mouthful of iced caramel mocha across the floor.

“So really, you’d be saving me a shitton of time,” Bucky continues, once he’s collected himself.

“Oh,” says Steve, “ _well_ , if it’s _convenient_ for you to defraud the military--”

“Convenient and more importantly, funny,” Bucky cuts in.

Steve bites his lip again. Is he doing it on purpose? He just looks thoughtful, though. “I do like the idea of this administration’s military industrial complex footing the bills for a random depraved bisexual artist,” he says.

Bisexual _. Bisexual_. Thank every goddamn god in the pantheon.

“There’s no way we’d get away with it, though,” Steve is saying. “They must check up on this kinda thing. They’d notice we have different addresses.”

“I’ve got a spare room I’ve been meaning to rent,” says Bucky, just a shade too quickly.

Steve stares at him. “I’ve been thinking of breaking my lease,” he says slowly, “because my apartment’s full of mice.”

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky feels the strangest mixture of horror and elation, “Steve, you _cannot_ live there. Mice carry _disease_ , Steve.”

“Their disease can fight all my diseases,” says Steve.

“What’s your price range?”

Steve tells him. Bucky tries not to react. “It’s less than you were planning to charge,” Steve says, jutting out his chin.

He’s right, but not by much. “Think I could swing a discount for my _husband_.”

“I don’t take charity,” Steve growls.

It’s Bucky’s turn to stare. “Steve. Steven. I am a _stranger_ who is trying to live with you. I could be a conman. I could be a murderer. Of all possibilities, what’s got you worried is maybe I’m trying to be _nice_ to you?”

“Well,” Steve snaps, “are you?”

“No!” Bucky half-shouts. “And since you haven’t checked, I’m also not trying to _steal your organs_ \--”

“I hope not,” says Steve, “since they’re _shit_.”

“Far as I’m concerned,” says Bucky, “the only problem with selling our fake marriage would be we don’t know anyone in common, but--”

“Uh,” Steve says, “Actually. Your counselor, Sam? Is that Sam Wilson, by any chance?”

Bucky goggles at him. “Holy shit.”

“We went to college together,” says Steve. Then, “What? NYC’s not that big.” Then, “Oh, he is gonna be _pissed_ that he missed punching a Nazi. Look, if anyone asks, I met you on Grindr, okay?”

“Sounds good,” says Bucky, who still needs to get caught up on several years’ worth of apps and platforms. “So it’s settled, then? What colors d’you want for the wedding?”

“I am _not_ sham-marrying you,” Steve tells him, and Bucky takes a long pull on his drink to hide whatever kicked-puppy expression is on his face right now, _Christ, I was only joking_. “I’m not moving in with you, either.”

Steve takes a deep, steadying breath, and Bucky readies himself for something terrible. “Because,” says Steve, “that’d make things really really weird when I ask you out.” Another deep breath. “Which is what I’m doing right now. To be clear.”

There’s a long pause. Steve looks resolute but also unsure of himself.

“ _What_ ,” breathes Bucky. “Steve, I have been blatantly flirting with you for like an hour.”

“No you haven’t,” Steve fires back, which is kind of incredible. Bucky rolls his eyes. “Look, if I can’t _tell_ you’re flirting, you’re _not doing it right.”_

“Yeah?” A smile is tugging at the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “How do you flirt, Steve? Show me how to flirt.”

“Wow,” says Steve, beaming, “you are a _douchebag_.” Then, “Meet you here at seven tomorrow night?”

“You are _oblivious as fuck_ ,” says Bucky. Then, “Yeah, seven works.”

 

EPILOGUE

“Natasha, this is Steve,” says Bucky. He adds, dutifully, “we met on Grindr."

“Did you,” says Natasha coolly. She plunks a sheet of paper down on the end table. It’s a printout of a photo: Bucky and Steve simultaneously punching that neo-Nazi, in glorious technicolor. “This was taken at the rally you went to, James,” she says. “You know, the rally where you claimed that _nothing much happened_? It made the nightly news and it’s trending on twitter. Congratulations, you’re a meme now.”

PUNCHING PALS, the caption reads, and Bucky’s got a bone to pick with the editor.

“Did you go to the trouble of printing out that photo, in color, just so you could dramatically slam it on the table?” says Steve.

“Of course,” she says. “I like him,” she mouths to Bucky.

“Figures,” Bucky mouths back.

“Did you two seriously meet while attacking the same Nazi?” Natasha asks, and Steve nods. “Damn,” she says, “that’s kinda romantic.”

It kinda is, thinks Bucky. It kinda is.

**Author's Note:**

> Steve's shirt is a reference to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VwcKwGS7OSQ) song.
> 
> Steve's tattoo is a reference to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LWkVcaAGCi0) song and [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R8eK9ZXf-Ow) one.


End file.
